


The Hanging Tree

by Arenal



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arenal/pseuds/Arenal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of the hanging tree in Katniss' song: Clara Brighthall falls dangerously in love with Tyran Doyle. Their love leads to tragedy and Tyran's execution.<br/>And yet.<br/>(It's kind of "Romeo and Juliet" if "Romeo and Juliet" turned out to be a horror story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hanging Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This story doesn't really have anything to do with The Hunger Games except that I got the idea from the song "The Hanging Tree", so I wasn't sure what other fandom I could put it under.

The Hanging Tree  
Are you, are you coming to the tree  
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three  
Strange things did happen there, no stranger would it seem  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree  
Are you, are coming to the tree  
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee  
Strange things did happen there, no stranger would it seem  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree  
Are you, are coming to the tree  
Where I told you to run so we’d both be free  
Strange things did happen there, no stranger would it seem  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree  
Are you, are you coming to the tree  
Wear a necklace of rope side by side with me  
Strange things did happen there, no stranger would it seem  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree  
Are you, are you coming to the tree  
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three  
Strange things did happen there, no stranger will it seem  
When they see us together in the hanging tree 

Lord Brighthall, of Harriston, while not the wealthiest of lords, was nevertheless from an old and respected family, and thus was very proud. When young, he had had several children; now the only child remaining in his home was his youngest daughter, Clara, and people said that it would not be long before she, too, left, for she was of marrying age, and she was good-natured and very beautiful, with a sweet, trusting temper and long, flaxen tresses. Lord Brighthall had already had several offers for her hand, but none that he deemed worthy. Clara herself was in love with no one, and perfectly content to go along with her father’s wishes.  
One day, a young man stopped in Harriston, and people whispered about him as he passed. He was lean and handsome and dark-haired, in the mottled green-and-brown clothing of a huntsman. None of that would have ordinarily made the whispers fly as they did, although doubtless anyone with his looks would have immediately captured the hearts of the tavern girls as quickly as he seemed to.  
No, what surprised and interested the town most were his eyes—black eyes edged with a burning red-gold color shone in his tanned face like coals; the eyes of a demon. That should have immediately caused panic. But something about him stilled them. Shortly afterward, though, it hardly mattered; soon enough he was settled in the tavern, talking and laughing with the other patrons as if he had known them for years. Nobody could believe they had doubted him. Anyway, he had given them a perfectly good explanation for his strange eye color. Nobody could remember it, but they knew they had understood.  
A few days later, as he walked through the town, he passed a beautiful stone manor house with a low wall surrounding a garden beside it. Through the wrought-iron gate, the youth could see the lovely Clara, reading a book under an apple tree.  
“Hello!” he called.  
Clara glanced up in surprise, startled away from her reverie. “Hello,” she said cautiously.  
“Who owns this house?”  
“My father, Lord Brighthall.”  
“Ah, I see. His hall must be bright indeed with you occupying it.”  
Clara raised her eyebrows and smiled, and the young man ducked his head shyly. “My apologies. People have told me before I should try not to make jokes. I suppose I can’t help wanting people to laugh, but it seems my talents are ill-suited for that.”  
“No, it’s—you have nothing to apologize for,” Clara said, smiling wider and coming toward the gate. “What’s your name?”  
“I’m Tyran Doyle.”  
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Doyle. My name is Clara.”  
“Mr. Doyle!” Tyran Doyle scoffed loudly. “Mr. Doyle is my father, a man much wiser than I with a long white beard who lives far from here. I’m just Tyran.”  
Clara’s cheeks colored slightly. “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, in any case.”  
“Certainly not more pleased than I am to meet you. What were you reading, Clara?”  
Clara opened the gate on a whim and ushered Tyran in. “Eidolon. Have you read it?”  
Tyran’s eyes widened. “Why, certainly I have! It’s a marvelous book, isn’t it?” He looked over Clara’s volume. “You’ve read it many times, haven’t you?”  
Within the next two hours, Clara and Tyran were the closest of friends.  
As the sun was setting, someone within the grand house called for Clara.  
“Oh, that’s my mother!” Clara said suddenly, standing. “I’m so sorry, Tyran—”  
“She would think it improper that you let a stranger into the garden,” Tyran said, with such an understanding smile that Clara felt absolved of guilt, although when she thought about the feeling later, she could not understand what guilt she had been absolved of. At the time, all she knew was that receiving Tyran’s smile was the best feeling in the world.  
“Yes, exactly,” she replied, relieved. “Will you come back?”  
“Absolutely!” He grinned at her through the silken dusk. “These have been two of the best hours of my life, Clara.”  
Clara had been unwilling to admit to herself that she felt so strongly about a man she’d known for such a short time, but privately she agreed with him. “Thank you. I’ll be here tomorrow.”  
“Then so will I.” Tyran smiled once more, and suddenly leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.  
Clara could still feel the warmth of his lips after she went inside.

Every day for the next few weeks, Tyran and Clara met. It became dangerous for them to meet in the garden as the weather grew better and Lord Brighthall’s household walked the grounds more freely, so they met in a glade in the woods lined with wildflowers and sunlight. Clara wasn’t sure when she had fallen in love with Tyran. Perhaps it had been that very first day in the garden, although she didn’t want to admit it. However, she had the assurance that he felt as strongly about her. Who could doubt the looks in his beautiful eyes? Who could doubt the silky truths in his voice when he begged her to run away with him to be married in his homeland?  
And every time he requested it, she refused, although her heart cried to her to go with him. It was improper for a young lady like herself; she couldn’t break her family’s heart like that. She loved him more than she could ever imagine loving anyone else, and yet her love for him could not overcome her sense of duty. She tried to persuade him to ask her father’s permission for her hand, but he always refused: “Surely your illustrious and noble father would not permit you to marry one such as me.”—by which he meant the impoverished second son of a once-great family—“And he is quite right, too. I am selfish and cruel to ask for your hand this way, and yet I feel sure that once my brother meets you, he will take pity on me and give us land and money for your sweet sake.”  
Tyran’s continued references to his father and brother reassured Clara greatly. He may not have been wealthy, but his certainty when he spoke of his family proved to her that they existed as he described them.  
And it was getting harder and harder for her to refuse him. What was her family’s honor, after all, in the face of her vast love for Tyran? What right did her sense of duty have to stop her from being happy? Whenever she was away from Tyran, she was desperately torn, but when she was with him, everything was abundantly clear: she could only be happy if she was with him.

Time passed quickly for Clara when she was with Tyran, so she was not sure how many weeks had gone by since her meeting him when her father announced one evening at dinner that she was betrothed.  
“My dear, Sir Edward Orton has asked for your hand in marriage!” Lord Brighthall beamed at her. “You’re a very lucky woman, and, if I do say so myself, he’s a very lucky man!”  
Lord Brighthall could not understand why Clara did not show much pleasure at the announcement, but, he thought, after all, she had always been a rather reserved girl—a quality Edward found very desirable in a woman, and therefore not at all a bad thing.  
Lady Brighthall cooed at the thought. “Clara Orton! It will be lovely! He’s young and wealthy; he’s a good man. It’s everything you could possibly desire!”  
Clara nodded and tried to smile. “Thank you, Father. When is the wedding?”  
Lord Brighthall smiled fondly at his daughter. “So eager already, my dear? Don’t fret. It will be soon enough—in three months’ time, everything should be prepared. Sir Edward must make a business trip later this week, but soon after he returns we will have the wedding.”  
At that moment, Clara’s smile widened; when she returned to her room, she sobbed.

“Tyran!” Clara cried as Tyran entered the clearing, crowned with his incredible smile.  
“What’s the matter, my love?” Tyran asked, stroking her face gently.  
“My father has betrothed me to Sir Edward Orton. He will never accept you now.”  
Tyran held Clara tenderly as she wept and they sat in silence for several long moments. Finally, Tyran whispered: “I will ask nothing more of you, Clara. Go back home. Marry Sir Edward and be happy with him.”  
Clara’s face jerked up to look at Tyran. “Don’t you love me?”  
“Of course I do! That’s why I must give you up. A man like Sir Edward can give you so much more than I ever can—”  
Clara shook her head desperately. “If you gave me yourself, that would be enough!”  
“I have, time and time again! I thought you did not want to accept it!”  
“That was when I thought we had time, when I thought we had a chance. Now—”  
They tried to murmur comfort to each other, but neither believed what they said.  
“So? What do we do now?” Tyran said at last.  
Clara looked into her lover’s face. He seemed to be holding his breath, and she couldn’t believe she could ever love anything more. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “Let’s elope. We’ll go wherever you want—I’m happy to be wherever you are.”  
Tyran’s face broke into his beautiful, guilt-absolving smile and Clara knew she wasn’t doing anything wrong as long as he smiled at her like that.

There was a quick, soft tap at Clara’s door as she quickly tied some clothes and herbs in a bundle. Clara shoved the bundle under a chair and tried to calm her racing heart. She’d agreed to flee with Tyran that night, and he was supposed to come very shortly, in the guise of one of the servants, to ensure that everything was going according to plan. Clara hoped desperately that she’d be able to get rid of her unwelcome visitor quickly, but she could give no signs of her anguish.  
“Enter!” she called.  
Clara’s sister, Sabrina, entered. Sabrina was a rosy, cheerful woman, ten years older than Clara, and she had a loving husband and a young son. Clara was always happy to see her and hear her stories, and a few years ago, she had loved to dream about having a life like Sabrina’s when she grew older. Now, however, Clara simply wanted Sabrina to leave so she could continue packing for her coming journey.  
“Clara!” Sabrina cried joyfully, embracing her sister. “Why are you not downstairs? More of the family is coming to celebrate your betrothal! I hear Sir Edward himself will be here very shortly!”  
Clara tried to smile. “Yes, indeed he will. I am simply preparing.”  
Sabrina chuckled and sat on Clara’s bed. “It’s a wonderful match. Sir Edward is a good man. My husband knows him well and praised him highly when he heard of your upcoming wedding.”  
“Yes, I’m very lucky,” Clara said, not really thinking about what she was saying.  
“Why do you seem so pale and sad, then? Come, Clara, tell me. Is something wrong?”  
“No, of course not! I—I was just tidying my room and some dust got in my eye.”  
“Oh, yes, that is annoying. Would you like help?” Sabrina glanced down at the edge of the bundle, which Clara had not had a chance to hide well, and took it up without waiting for a reply. “Clothes under your chair? Dear Clara, you’ve been distracted!” Sabrina chuckled. “But why are they all tied up like this with medicinal herbs?”  
Clara made a grab for the clothes but Sabrina untied them and shook them out. “Traveling clothes! Clara, are you going on a journey?”  
“No, it’s—it’s a luck charm. The wise-woman gave me—”  
“I’ve told you not to listen to her. Clara, really, this is foolish. She doesn’t know anything. But what’s this?”  
As Sabrina shook out Clara’s cloak, a note from Tyran, describing where they would meet, fell out of one of the pockets. Sabrina read it quickly and turned pale.  
Slowly, she met Clara’s eyes. “Clara, who’s Tyran?”  
Clara shook her head. “Nobody—the stable boy—he follows me sometimes, the silly boy—give that to me—”  
“Clara—were you planning to elope?”  
“Of course not!”  
“You are! I can tell! Why, Clara, you know how this would break Father’s heart—Sir Edward’s—please, be sensible—”  
Clara started to sob. “You don’t understand, Sabrina! I know Sir Edward is a good man, but I met someone else before I knew Sir Edward wanted to marry me, and I love Tyran! Please, don’t tell Father. He wouldn’t have let me marry Tyran, so yes, I was planning to elope, but—but—I love Tyran more than anything! I will die if I can’t be with him!”  
Sabrina started to cry too. “As your sister, and as the wife of Sir Edward’s friend, and most especially as our father’s daughter, I can’t let you go without telling Father. Have you even tried to talk to him about this?”  
“No—Sabrina, please!”  
Sabrina stared at Clara. “You love this man—your Tyran—more than you love your family? You would choose him over us?”  
Clara’s lips tightened. “Yes. I’m sorry, Sabrina. But I would give up all of you to be with Tyran.”  
“Clara, how long have you known this man?”  
Suddenly, the door burst open and Tyran entered. Sabrina and Clara both sprang to her feet, but Clara relaxed as soon as she recognized Tyran. Sabrina, on the other hand, opened her mouth to scream—  
—and Tyran ran her through with the sword he was holding.  
Clara stared down at her sister’s body in shock. “Tyran, my love, what have you done?” she murmured.  
Tyran grasped Clara’s shoulders and kissed her passionately. When he broke away, Clara no longer had eyes for anything in the room but him.  
“Clara, we must flee immediately,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I had to kill this woman, and I’m sorry for that, but she would have exposed us. Now we must leave at once. Sir Edward is here; we must escape by the back way.”  
Clara gasped and, without a word, followed Tyran. After that, it barely even occurred to her to think of the corpse they left behind as her sister.

Tyran and Clara had already escaped the grounds, but were not far away, when a maid discovered Sabrina’s body and Clara’s absence. Her scream roused the household, and faster than anyone would have thought possible, Lord Brighthall and Sir Edward Orton were leading a group of warriors in pursuit. Tyran and Clara’s flight had not, after all, been very well concealed. Some kitchen servants had seen them flee through the back door and across the herb garden, and various villagers and farmers were able to direct the men.  
Lord Brighthall and Sir Edward, the most desperate of the party, soon outstripped their fellows and had Tyran and Clara in their sight.  
Sir Edward drove his horse directly into Tyran’s path and, dismounting, drew his sword. Tyran seized Clara’s arm and drew his sword, stepping in front of her.  
“Clara, my dear, are you hurt?” Lord Brighthall said.  
“No—” Clara started, tears streaking down her cheeks.  
“Release Miss Brighthall and your death shall be relatively painless,” Sir Edward snapped.  
“Release her?” Tyran let go of Clara’s arm. “I’ve done so. Now ask yourself, Orton, why she isn’t trying to escape me?”  
Sir Edward stared at Clara as she clutched at Tyran’s shoulder. “Clara?” he whispered.  
Clara shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
Lord Brighthall also dismounted. “Clara? Are you—” He choked briefly. “Is it true?”  
“Father, I love him!” Clara said. “I met him before I knew of Sir Edward’s love for me, and I knew you would not let me marry Tyran. I never thought—” Her tears overcame her.  
“And this man, this man you love, killed your sister?” Lord Brighthall said. “My daughter is dead because you decided to elope, Clara!”  
Clara only sobbed harder.  
“Enough of this!” Sir Edward snapped. “We can determine Clara’s part in this later. If nothing else, this man must be brought to justice.”  
Tyran chuckled darkly. “You can try.”  
“Come with us and perhaps your sentence shall be lighter,” Lord Brighthall said sternly.  
“I know you’re lying,” Tyran said scornfully. “Don’t pretend to think you’re cleverer than I am, old man.”  
Clara didn’t seem to notice the change that had come over Tyran. She shrunk away as her lover attacked Sir Edward and Lord Brighthall.  
The fight was quick and vicious. Lord Brighthall, slower than Tyran and unsteady, was dead in a matter of seconds. Upon his death, Sir Edward attacked with renewed fury, but he lost his head for it. And by then, the rest of the party was upon Tyran and Clara.

Tyran’s trial didn’t take long. Upon the evidence of multiple witnesses, Tyran Doyle was immediately declared guilty of murdering Lady Sabrina White, Lord Roy Brighthall, and Sir Edward Orton, and sentenced to hang. He didn’t offer much in the way of defense; he merely glared at the surrounding townspeople with a mixture of scorn and boredom. His only attempt to excuse himself was that he loved Clara and his love for her clouded his mind. Clara wept very hard at that.  
Miss Clara Brighthall’s sentence took a little bit longer, as she hadn’t actually killed anyone, but her intended elopement had directly resulted in the deaths of three people very close to her. Eventually, it was determined that she be forced to stay in her house for a period of several months. The deaths of Tyran and his victims, as well as her own guilt, weighed very heavily on her, and nobody would now want to be associated with her. Her own siblings and mother scarcely knew how to look; it was certain that nobody would ever marry her. The generally acknowledged and completely unspoken consensus was that she would be sure to lead a very lonely life and that was punishment enough. Clara’s expression throughout the proceedings certainly corroborated that. It was also determined that as a final measure to ensure that she realized the full depth of Tyran’s atrocities—for, after all, she was still in love with the man!—she would be forced to watch his execution. 

The day of the execution was bright and crisp. Clara was crying quietly, her tears dripping down her cheeks as she stood with her mother and siblings and household, none of whom would meet Clara’s eyes. Clara herself could barely watch as Tyran walked toward the huge, spreading, verdant tree, from which hung a thick noose.  
“Any last words?” The town usually had no need of a professional executioner, so a low-ranking soldier was carrying out the sentence. Clara recognized the man; he’d cheerfully flirted with her a few times, a couple of years ago. She knew his name; she’d thought of him as a nice man. Somehow, that made it worse.  
Tyran silently shook his head and Clara wondered why he hadn’t even declared his love for her one last time.  
“Very well,” the soldier said.  
The crack of Tyran’s neck snapping shouldn’t have been loud enough for Clara to hear it from where she was standing, but she thought she could hear it, almost feel it, nonetheless. She could barely see through her tears.  
“It’s over, Clara,” her mother said, after a minute. “Let’s go home.”  
Clara wiped the tears from her eyes to stare at Tyran’s body and suddenly it all came to her in a flash of clarity. She wouldn’t live without Tyran. She would go back to her dead father’s home and eat her dead father’s food and take her dead father’s dagger and kill herself. The void of death was better than a life without Tyran.  
Clara turned to leave.  
“Clara! My love!”  
Clara whipped around. Tyran’s head was upright; he looked healthy and alive and he was staring at her. Everyone stared and there were various cries of “He’s a demon!”  
“Witchcraft!” someone yelled. “She’s enchanting the corpse!”  
Clara’s mother turned on her. “Clara! Are you—?”  
But Clara only had eyes for Tyran.  
“Run, Clara!” he called. “Fly to the place where we used to meet; you’ll be safe there! I won’t let them harm you!” And he began to glow a soft gold.  
Clara wanted more than anything to go to Tyran, but she also knew that it would be far wiser for her to run. If he was a demon, it didn’t matter. He was alive and he loved her and she trusted him as much as she ever had.  
So she fled. She didn’t know how she was able to escape so easily, but from the golden glow behind her, she assumed it was some kind of protective spell. Once again, Tyran had proven his immense love from her.  
Her love gave her energy. She reached the copse where they usually met with surprising speed, and waited, full of hope, for him to find her.  
By the time the sun set, she was still alone.

Clara fell asleep on the moss carpeting the grove where she felt safer than she did in her own home, her face once again wet with tears, wondering whether she should go look for Tyran.  
And she dreamed.  
She was standing in the grove, waiting, and this time she didn’t have to wait long. A soft golden glow appeared between the trees and Tyran walked out. “Clara!” he cried joyfully, reaching for her.  
And Clara should have run to him. She wanted him. But something stopped her. For the first time since she met him, she noticed his strange eyes.  
“What’s wrong, my love?” he asked, confused.  
Clara tried to speak, without knowing what she was going to say, but she couldn’t move. Tyran’s eyes seemed to grow larger and larger until they swallowed the world, a single gigantic coal, and Clara could see herself suspended there—beside Sabrina, her father, and Sir Edward.  
Tyran’s voice echoed all around them. “Are you coming to the tree?”  
The dead stared out at Clara reproachfully. “Clara!” they cried out with one voice, and Clara wanted to flee but she was still frozen. “Clara!”

“Clara!” Someone gently shook her awake.  
Clara awoke with a gasp to see Tyran standing over her. As always, she was delighted to see him; there was nothing strange about seeing Tyran, was there?  
And then she remembered.  
She sprang to her feet. “But—my love—”  
“I know,” he murmured, pulling her toward him. He looked perfectly healthy, perfectly human. His eyes weren’t strange at all. Why would they be? She knew them so well.  
“But how—?” she gasped.  
He kissed her suddenly and nothing else mattered. His lips were warm and soft.  
“I’m alive, Clara,” he whispered, as he pulled away. “I tricked the hangman. That’s all.”  
“But I heard—your neck—”  
“Just a trick.” He kissed her again. “Can’t you tell I’m alive?”  
“Of course,” she breathed. “How did you escape?”  
His grin was uncharacteristically sharp. “  
“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and sweet.  
“Where are we going?”  
“We’re leaving,” he replied coaxingly. “Nobody’s awake anymore. There’s no guard, and the best road leads through the town. We should go that way.”  
“Of course,” she murmured.  
They strolled hand-in-hand through the town. All was empty and lit by moonlight, and Clara felt a sudden surge of joy. The night was sweet and full of romance.  
And then, in the center of the square centered around the hanging tree, Tyran stopped.  
“What is it?” Clara asked, stopping as well and looking at the hanging tree.  
There were two new, empty nooses there.  
“I didn’t hear anything about another execution,” Clara said slowly.  
“My love.” Tyran pulled her around to face him. There was so much love and sorrow in his eyes that she almost cried. “I have not been completely honest with you.”  
“Tyran…?”  
“I’m not completely here, Clara. I’m alive for now, but part of me is already dead. If you really want to be with me forever…” He looked at the tree, and Clara understood instantly.  
“That’s the only way?” Clara murmured.  
“That’s the only way,” Tyran assented. “I’m so sorry to ask this of you…”  
Clara pulled him to her and kissed him. “There was never any question.”

The next morning, soldiers cut down two bodies, stiff and cold, from the tree. They buried Clara with great ceremony in a rich coffin in her family’s burial plot, for after all, she was not the first young woman to have been tricked by a man, and she not at fault. Too many Brighthalls had died for her family to be angry at her.  
They threw Tyran into a unmarked grave on the outskirts of town, without a coffin—after having a priest say nine blessings over the ground to ensure that the dead man would not once again return.  
*  
A few weeks after the incidents at Harriston, in a town far to the west, Ellen, the lovely younger sister of the town innkeeper, was the first one to notice a traveler enter the town. He was a lean, dark-haired young man, full of vitality, and when he noticed her, an amazing smile spread across his face.  
“Hello,” the man greeted her. “Are there lodgings for a night to be found here?”  
Ellen returned his smile shyly and directed him to her brother’s inn.  
“Why, I think I shall never find my way there by myself,” the young man said, and Ellen thought his voice was the sweetest she had ever heard. “Would you terribly mind escorting me there?”  
“Of course,” Ellen replied, delighted by the stranger’s apparent interest in her. She was so taken with him that she barely noticed his odd eyes—they had black irises ringed with red-gold, like burning coals.


End file.
